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by Imadra Blue
Summary: All Padmé had to do was remind Anakin. Het.


**Pairing:** Anakin/Padmé  
**Disclaimer:** Star Wars and all its characters are property of Lucasfilm Ltd. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**Notes:** Written for Jedi Em's birthday. Please note this concerns a sexual dysfunction, and those who only like to read about perfect sexual relationships may find this upsetting.

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"It's perfectly normal," Padmé said, smoothing her synthesilk nightgown over her knees.

"No," Anakin said, voice as hard as durasteel. "It's not."

Padmé sighed and reached out to stroke Anakin's bare back, but he twitched, and she withdrew her hand. She studied him for a long moment. This was not the Anakin she had married. She wanted the real Anakin back, the Anakin she had fallen in love with.

A nasty voice inside of her said that she didn't even know who that was. Padmé silenced it.

"Anakin, there's medications and aphrodisiacs that we can get you—"

"I shouldn't need them. I'm twenty-one. I'm in perfect health."

Padmé glanced at Anakin's durasteel arm, only the elbow visible as he curled the rest of it in front of him, hidden from her view. It shone in the weak light radiating from Coruscant's nighttime skyline. Instead of stars in the sky above Padmé's window, the stars of the planet below her window provided her with light. She noticed pale scars gleaming on his bronzed back. She had never seen them before. She wanted to ask about them, but Anakin didn't like to talk about the war.

Sighing, Padmé stood. She threw open her window, letting the breeze in. Her curtains fluttered. Anakin turned and stared at her, his eyes dark, even in the light. His bottom lip trembled ever so tightly, his eyes hooded. He looked ready to burst, like one of his badly damaged engines.

"Do you love me?" Padmé asked, leaning against the wall and staring at her beautiful Knight. His freshly cut Padawan's braid lay on her night table. Even the Jedi thought he was a man now. The nasty voice asked what sort of man, but she ignored it.

"Of course I love you, Padmé. You're everything I ever dreamed about."

The voice refused to be ignored. It asked Padmé if Anakin had ever stopped dreaming, if he merely loved her because she was allowed to love him. Then it asked her if she was any better. Padmé tried to silently reason with it, to point out how Anakin and Anakin alone made her feel alive, made her feel real—with him, she could pretend she was a woman, instead of a Queen or a Senator or a hero.

"And I love you, Anakin," Padme said. The words came so easily to her; they had to be true. "I don't care if you can't perform."

Anakin turned away again. "I do."

"There has to be a reason for it. You were fine three months ago, when we last met. If you could tell me what happened on—"

"No."

Padmé turned away. She studied Coruscant's hyperurban beauty through her open window, of the still busy streets, of the lights that formed inexplicable patterns, shifting as the clouds on Naboo did. The wind ruffled her hair and sweat-soaked nightgown. She could feel its cold through the gauzy material. When Anakin's warm hand wound its way around her and cupped her right breast, she jumped and glanced up at him. She had not heard him approach.

"I need you," Anakin whispered, his lips moist and soft as they pressed against hers. "Can we try again?"

Padmé smiled and wound her fingers through his coarse hair. "Of course, Annie."

As he drew her towards the bed, Padmé finally silenced the voice inside of her. Now was not the time for doubts and misgivings. Now was the time for her and her husband to forget the war, the troubles of the galaxy, and comfort each other. Now was the time for Padmé and Anakin to be one, the only one.

Anakin moved over her, his desire tangible now. Padmé smiled and let him kiss her everywhere. When she was ready, he entered her, becoming as he had on their wedding night. _This_ was her Anakin, the man she'd fallen in love, strong and pure, and hers, all hers.

She only hoped that she could keep finding him. When they finished, Anakin lay by her side, his breath evening almost instantly as he fell asleep, head pillowed by her stomach. Padmé stroked his hair, fingering the bristles over his right ear where his braid had been shorn. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the night breeze that drifted in from her open window.


End file.
